


Twixt Primroses and Hawthorns

by TexasDreamer01



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Bilbo, Bilbo-centric, Fairies, Hobbit Culture, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Violence, Psychological Horror, Shock, Thorin Has Tact, Thorin is a Softie, Yavanna Adopted Hobbits, gentlehobbits, old school fairies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Licking his dry lips, Bilbo gathered up his quailing courage and stretched a hand out to the air directly above the mushrooms. It stopped precisely at the boundary, and he let out a resigned breath. <em>This is a bad day to be a Hobbit</em>, he moaned to himself, before sucking in a breath and nodding to himself,</p><p><em>But better Hobbit than Dwarf, today</em>."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twixt Primroses and Hawthorns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RabbitPie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitPie/gifts).



> Middle Earth has a complicated history, in terms of its formation. One can't mash two worlds - TYPES of worlds - together and expect things to go off without a hitch. Also hobbits; if they've become a separate species from humans, it has to be somehow and for some reason. I decided that mixing the two concepts would provide at least a little bit of explanation and showing the consequences of both well enough. Overlapping the Valar's flat world to a round world that already has its own magic, culture, peoples, and mythology creates an interesting playing field, and a dichotomy that's slightly more dynamic to explore, at least in terms of Hobbits and their cultural/genetic history in relation to the other races and Valar politics.
> 
> Taking a few elements from Nice Manners for a Thief - namely the [ideas](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/23353451) I've founded there about gentlehobbits and Bilbo's role in the Shire as head of the Baggins clan, as well as hedging on the overall concept of smials (which I'll likely build upon in future fics, the idea is too tantalizing to leave alone) in both the story proper and the comments section where I explain myself a little more - and fleshing those out a little. This is a separate world-building from that fic, since I wanted to play around with the idea of two distinct realms of mythologies co-existing (and clashing; the arguments must be phenomenal). Fairy mythology here is as close as I could dig up for pre-Roman era England, though I did draw from Celtic lore and partially Germanic lore, since I do like the idea of abiding by the Shire being based off an English locale and the suggestions that Hobbitish is based off Old English.
> 
> I heartily advise keeping a tab open for Wikipedia or Google, though I still happily answer any questions. Also! Check out RabbitPie's fic [Belladonna's Child](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494414/chapters/7678370) \- it's a promising exposition on the idea of dwarf!Bilbo, especially raised in the Shire by Bungo and Belladonna.
> 
> Tumblr reblog link [here](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com/post/125986952575/banner-by-bunnybriand-licking-his-dry-lips).
> 
>  **13 April 2017:** This will be continued! I can't say when new chapters will be posted, as there's a _lot_ of worldbuilding necessary before I resume this work, but feel free to drop a line at my [tumblr](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com/).

Really, the field of primrose banked between a pair of hawthorn trees should have raised Bilbo's hackles. As it were, the flight from Rivendell was long and by the time they had made camp for their noontime meal, the entire Company had already been up for several more hours than usual when they started their marches and it had escaped his notice. Not even the circle of hedgehog mushrooms had alerted him.

So when Kíli and Fíli had vented their fatigue with a bout of brotherly bickering that edged too far into harm for his taste, Bilbo had stepped forward, a crease to his brow as he sought to soothe their tempers – it wasn't like any of them had _intended_ to leave in the middle of the night and travel for many hours with barely a rest in between. What ended up happening was rather more rushed than his memory cared to recreate; in truth, it was a quick bout of squabbling that ended with him tripping right into the ring of mushrooms.

It was only when Bilbo made a distressed noise, face draining, that stopped both Dwarves in the midst of their argument. Their faces drew pinched in concern at how he had frozen in his stumbled position. When they made to reach for him, however, worried that he might have sprained an ankle – or something else that prevented him from rising – he barked out a terrified, “Don't!”

“Master Baggins-”

“Don't!” He repeated, scrambling to his feet. Nothing seemed broken or otherwise harmed, but his fretful mind pushed that far from his list of priorities for the moment. He glanced at the brothers, gaze raking over them in a visual check – they fared well, save for the encroaching fear and confusion on their features. Just as well, he was beginning to be scared witless, too, “Just- just stay over there, please? Actually, get farther away.”

Fíli's eyes sharpened, taking note of the quiet command in the plea. Meeting the blond's gaze, he flicked his eyes over to Kíli and back, jerking his head in the direction of the camp. They were already beginning to stir, those closest to them wondering at Bilbo's cry. The heir nodded, grasping his younger brother by the arm and yanking both of them away in quick steps, turning a deaf ear to Kíli's confused objections.

Licking his dry lips, Bilbo gathered up his quailing courage and stretched a hand out to the air directly above the mushrooms. It stopped precisely at the boundary, and he let out a resigned breath. _This is a bad day to be a Hobbit_ , he moaned to himself, before sucking in a breath and nodding to himself, _But better Hobbit than Dwarf today_.

His eyes darted to the surrounding area. There was a static rising in the air - but then, he mused, perhaps it was just the air around him – and the Company was drawing closer. Bilbo wanted to groan at that, but he knew better than to think that raising such alarm would leave them idle. Catching Dori's eye, for he was closest at the front of the pack, having been seated nearest to the commotion, he shook his head, letting his fingertips rest against the invisible wall.

“Laddie?” It seemed he wouldn't be escaping questioning from them, and Bilbo cast another nervous glance around, almost swearing in dismay at the feel of the hair on the back of his neck irrevocably rise, “What's going on?”

“Have you got iron?” He asked, ignoring the question as he chewed on his bottom lip, “Any of you that have iron, put it around your neck. And, and stay back. You can't get me out, don't bother trying.”

A few immediately obeyed the strange request, the seriousness laced in his low voice enough to spur them on. Those that didn't he gave a weak glare at in between inspecting his captive space. _Not long, now_ , his mind murmured with a thread of subdued fear. Bilbo was patient in many things when he needed to be, but his own livelihood never ranked that high. Gandalf, for all his innumerable timing, chose that moment to speak.

“Bilbo, my dear b-”

None of them could have anticipated the abrupt appearance of an individual at Bilbo's side. He immediately withdrew his hand from the barrier, stuffing both hands into his jacket pockets before turning around. There was only a quick once-over of the person – female, an otherworldly glimmer to her being that made him want to run as far away as possible, eyes dark and nearly pupil-less – before he sketched a short bow to the other.

“My lady,” His voice he refused to show a quaver, refused to look at the audience they now had. Had he a choice, Bilbo would have chosen to undergo this meeting alone, if only to spare them the dubious experience of negotiating with a fairy. Unfortunately, he now had the added task of making sure her attention was squarely on him. _This is just like the bleeding trolls_ , he groused, “My apologies for trespassing, it was not my intention.”

“Child.”

It was greeting and insult rolled into one. His lips pressed into a thin line, taking it for what it was; better than he had expected, certainly, and it was preferable to control the damage for speaking out of turn by coating it with flattery than to be deemed impertinent for silently demanding the fairy speak first. _Carefully, now_ , Bungo's voice lectured from the back of his mind, _Not too much flattery, not too little_.

There was a strained moment between them; just when Bilbo thought he would need to break the silence, the other swept past him, toeing the line of the ring. It caused his heart to stutter in terror, shoulders stiffening as he tracked each graceful, rapacious movement she made during her inspection of the Company. He bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to retain his mien of polite deference even though the fairy's attention was elsewhere.

But when she made to move toward them, Bilbo's veneer of composure fractured. _No, nono not them, they haven't done anything_.

“Leave them be,” He asked, not daring to look past the smoky screen that was the edge of the ring. It didn't even occur to him to stop the pleas and half-cocked schemes dripping from his mouth – couldn't, not with the memories of young, fresh faces and tired, worn ones circulating through his mind's eye, protectiveness and heartache coursing through his veins in equal measures, “Please.”

A beat passed, two. His hands fisted more fabric where they were hidden in his coat pockets. The fairy's gaze slid to him, piercing in their thoughtfulness; Bilbo wasn't fooled, he knew a calculating gaze as they swept over him anywhere – couldn't make it through extended family dinners with elders without that knowledge. She cocked her head at him, dark, bottomless gaze sending a thrill that sparked along the ends of his nerves. There was no guarantee that she would not leave the ring, feather-light toes passing over the mushrooms without so much as a by-your-leave.

“And why should I do that, child?”

He wetted his lips, wondering how they became so dry, mind racing and eventually shorting to blurt out the only answer he knew stood a chance, “Their blood is filled with iron. Dirty, filthy things, tainted at the core – terrible manners,” Bilbo cut a significant glance downwards, a little tendril of pleasure battling the fear as the fairy's eyes alighted upon the Company's shod feet with barely concealed curiosity, “Liars, besides. They proved poor guests, didn't observe hospitality or let me a be a proper host, gave shame to my house and kin.

“I would claim them as my own,” He continued, lifting his chin in a gesture of adamant defiance, letting his eyelids tick downwards in a move he knew his mother had used often when dealing with tweens who thought it best to play pretend with the farm scythes and wanted to prove themselves capable in the face of an adult's wrath. Sounds of shuffling tickled at the edge of his hearing, but it was too muffled with the rabbiting heartbeat in his ears to be noticed, “The wizard I cannot, he obeys the will of the Valar, but the dwarves... those I will claim the right to their punishment. I accompany them under a bargain, but I will see that the old laws are observed.”

Silence. The weight of the ring was a thrumming pressure on his senses, trying to coerce him into bowing to the weight. He panted quietly as he waited out the sharp gaze of his captor, breaths difficult to pull in. Copper made his tongue heavy, but he didn't know if it was blood or the forces of the ring or fairy in front of them. The taste was as disturbing as it was oddly soothing.

Bilbo startled at her face coming abruptly within inches of his own. He reared back, head meeting with the edges of the ring's seal with a dull thunk. Neither moved, and he could feel the tension bleeding out of him in small increments as the impromptu staring contest continued, pulse slowing to what would have been an eerie pace if he were able to pay attention to it past the sudden sharpening of his vision.

It was easier to breathe – he wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth and wonder precisely why that was, only be grateful for it, regardless. It was infinitely better to be left unawares than to fire off questions in front of a fairy, and he couldn't risk her feeling the want to answer any of them and demanding a price for it.

A coo drifted from the fairy's lips, close enough that he could feel the exhale pass over his own lips. Bilbo daren't breathe in return, didn't dare bring them any closer, not if it meant changing the rules of this game he had been pushed into. Her gaze was predatory in its curiosity, “... And what do you know of the old ways, child? The fey do not divulge their secrets easily. What does a hobbit know of our laws? Who are you, to claim to enact them?”

“Tûk,” He breathed, the name hanging on the knife-edge balance between them. The fairy backed off minutely, gaze narrow, “I'm the son of Belladonna Tûk. Only child of the third daughter, ninth child and youngest. Our ancestor married kin of yours, taught us the old ways. Instructed us to fall back on them if our laws were insufficient. My mother died before she could finish teaching me, but I know enough.”

The numbers appeared to make an impression, and Bilbo spared a moment to let his eyes flutter as he thought a prayer of gratitude. _Always did like the odd numbers_ , his mother's words echoed to him, _There's power in them, unable to be divided. Use those in your wards and charms, dearest, you'll be all the safer for it_.

A laugh echoed through the clearing, the melodious sound sharp as broken glass on his Hobbitish ears, “Aye, kin!” Bilbo dug his toes into the loamy soil beneath him, disliking the glee in the other's tone and the appraising gaze leveled on his companions. It shifted after a moment to him, and he forced himself to straighten in a show of easy confidence under it, _Just like meeting Auntie Mirabella_ , he mused absently, _Keep a straight face and let your cheeks get pinched as much as she feels like. You'll be able to leave soon enough with nothing worse than a bruised ego_. Another coo directed at him, this one in the much more familiar tone family the world over used, but accompanied with the light scratch of sharp nails down his cheek, “You're in luck, child, I knew a Tûk. Lovely lad, always raring for what came the next hills over. Stumbled right into my smial whilst I was tending to my mandragora one day.”

The fairy's smile gained a sharp edge, morphing the faux pleasantry typical of her kind into a challenging dare, “Screamed right pretty for me each child I took,” Bilbo sucked in a breath, willing his shiver of fear down, _Don't do it, don't, don't, don't_. She continued on, ostensibly blithe to the crackle of emotions surrounding them, “Yavanna, that witch, she gave you hobbits a boon. In exchange for farming the land! Hah, taking you away from us, attempting to sever us all from our home.

“Tell me, Tûk-child,” She gripped his chin, a delicate pinch between her thumb and crook of forefinger. Her voice was low, and he fought the thrall that wanted to sweep him away, the leaden threat of willpower being funneled into his mind and weakening limbs. Bilbo gasped, eyes burning at the piercing stare that always, always, precluded fey magic. He felt over-stretched, pulled between one world and another, in the capsule that was the fairy ring. One wrong word, Bilbo knew, and his days would be spent in this kinswoman's court, paraded around as entertainment long past his natural longevity, “What was this bargain they struck with you? What will you take, for the dishonor they have shown you? What price will you pay me, for their attempted desecration of my home? Or will you leave them to linger at my tender mercies?”

Bilbo swayed on the spot. The burning in his veins, the magic mingling poorly with his blood, diluted as it was with mortal things Vala-tempered. It was only through the grip on his face that kept him upright enough not to buckle in front of the fey being. And wouldn't that have been lovely, he thought distantly, pledging himself to a fairy by accident.

It took the image of how _terribly_ this could all turn out to lock his knees, to tune out the weakness that wanted to make him bend to its will – if there was one thing Bilbo Baggins was, he was the son of Belladonna! More than a fairy crooning loaded words in his face would be needed to make him quail and let those who needed him be harmed. He smoothed his features, gaze becoming the politely vacant that was necessary to settle feuds between clans alongside carefully-chosen words and perfectly-brewed tea. This was no different than any other day in the Shire.

A brief inhale steadied the rest of his nerves and chased away the last clinging tendrils of the fairy's thrall; Bilbo had to hide a smirk at the surprise lining the fairy's features – he was a Baggins, after all, and not just a Took. Respectability in the face of a scheming gossip was the forté of his clan, “I agreed to steal their home back from a dragon, in exchange for a portion of the profits from their treasury there,” He replied smoothly. _Just a negotiation_ , Bilbo reminded himself, _No different from deciding the terms for a will or land settlement for a new family_ , “I will claim rights to be in their reclaimed home as I wish, for they allow no outsider and it is not easily granted on their own will.

“As for their payment...” He knew the stories. Nothing less than what would exact the most pain would be acceptable – homes were more sacred than many, many things, and all of them had committed a grave offense. Forcing his gaze to not waver from the hungry one of the fairy's, he continued in a tone just light enough to make this entire farce a conversation – nothing delighted a fairy more than a well-crafted act, “One dragon scale for each member, including myself. They are fireproof and resistant to even the sharpest of blades, able to glitter in even the lowest of lights, besides. And... my second-borne son. I need an heir, after all, but after that... _well_. It's not like I can't get more.”

The fairy made a considering noise, dragging the hand that was pinching his face down to settle on his collar, nails a pinprick of sensation against his skin through the thin shirt. Bilbo didn't need to look – it was a hard bargain, likely settling far above and giving too high of a price in the eyes of the dwarves. He didn't expect them to understand bartering in such cruelties, nor to have learned the stories at their mother's knee as soon as they were old enough to understand. It was a measure of desperation, fit only for dealing with the fey – only gentlehobbits knew the rotes, only they _needed_ to, inter-married as they were with each other. It was Bilbo's responsibility, and his alone as both the only Hobbit and only gentlehobbit in the Company, to know what terms fairies preferred.

It was a nod to his knowledge of the fey folk that the fairy gave a short laugh at his remarks. The hand on him flexed in her titillation, and he winced reflexively at the feeling of blood being drawn to the surface, “I'll make a fine fey-child of you, yet!” She praised, grinning wildly at him, “I accept your terms, Tûk! But to make sure you keep to your terms, seeing as you cavort with Valar-children, I will need means to keep an eye on you.”

Before Bilbo could loose a sigh of relief, lips crushed themselves to his. He froze, inhaling in shock, startled at the vulgar roughness that pretended to be an approximation of affection. Pain filled his mouth abruptly. He keened into the fairy's mouth, blood filling his mouth sluggishly at the bite on his tongue; it contrasted sharply with the hand digging into his collar, circling faintly at his throat.

His shock didn't allow him to register the cackle ringing in his ears, nor being pushed out of the fairy ring – neatly avoiding the marking mushrooms outlining the fairy's home – to stumble in front of the group and fall in a loose heap in front of the others.

Long moments passed in a blinding cocktail of pain, grief, and relief before Bilbo realized that the dew of the grass was soaking into his pants. He struggled to stand, staggering like a fauntling just learning how to walk, noticing the grounding weight of a large coat that had been placed around his shoulders only when it started to slip off. Grabbing at the edges reflexively, he curled his fingers into the fabric, head bowed as he pressed his face into a forearm to muffle the wounded cries that he couldn't seem to stop.

The fabric of his sleeve grew damp slow enough that it took an embarrassing amount of time to notice. When Bilbo pulled his head back to inspect it, he felt faint at the blood smearing on it. The sight made his stomach roil, but he had to force it down at the last moment before it did more than scald the back of his throat, unwilling to find out what would happen if it met the marks on his tongue. It tingled faintly, resting heavily in his mouth as if it were swollen. For all he knew, it very well could be – _best ask_ _Óin_ _if he has anything_ , and, oh, did that thought hurt, knowing he still had to face his companions.

He had to resist another pained sound at how the disgust and possibly fear would likely contort their face at the sight of him, one hand knotting itself on the fabric above his aching heart.

Still, there was nothing for it. He signed a contract and bargained with a fairy – leaving was not an option at this point, no matter how much he wished to curl beneath the covers of his bed in Bag End and sleep this growing nightmare away. His steps were just as quiet as they typically were when he made his way to the crowded bonfire, sighting his pack where it had been left, restraining a surprised huff at seeing his bedroll already laid out and tucked between Dori's and Bofur's as a connecting link between the two families.

It didn't seem to be too late, as the cook pot was still hung above the fire; his stomach grumbled at the sight of it. Absorbed as he was in trying to quietly extract a bowl from his pack, the quiet murmur of those who hadn't dropped off for an early rest barely registered beyond the unconscious acknowledgment of background noise. Moving on autopilot to tonight's meal, Bilbo startled at his bowl being gentled pried from his white-knuckled grip.

“Easy, there,” Bombur said in a low murmur, and how had he not noticed the cook himself in front of the food? His bowl was pressed back into his hands a scant moment later, the transfer of food from pot to bowl having gone entirely unnoticed by Bilbo as he tried to process the rough callouses of the dwarf's hands in comparison to the deceptive silkiness that had been the fairy's, “Come and sit, Master Baggins, you look like a breeze could knock you o'er with nary a thought.”

He was sitting before the suggestion had sunk in. The cloak puddled around his knees, edges brushing at his feet in a manner that mostly hid how his toes automatically started to try and push through the forest earth. It was all mechanical, taking each bite, the flavours of the weak broth and simmered grains scarcely making an impression on his palate. That the food was hot enough to make the gashes on his tongue burn as if they had been rubbed with salt made Bilbo grimace faintly.

Only when he had finished eating did the bracketing warmth of two people pressing themselves into his sides flicker on his awareness enough for him to glance up. The worried faces of Fíli and Kíli met him, the former coaxing the empty bowl from his grasp with a hesitant smile. When he stared blankly at them in confusion did the worry deepen, and before Bilbo knew it, he was swaddled in matching, fierce hugs from the two children.

“We're so sorry, Master Baggins!” Kíli exclaimed, contrition lining his voice wetly. They backed away quickly when he hissed in surprise, hunching his shoulders in a jerked movement. Their eyes went wide, Fíli pushing aside the donated coat and his own jacket delicately to expose the marks the fairy had made. Faint scabbing from the shallow gouges were ringed in blooming bruises, and Bilbo sucked in a breath from the sensation of tender inspection even though he was unable to see it for himself.

Losing his tight grip on the coat, Bilbo curled a hand around Fíli's dumb-struck one, a reassuring smile coming to his lips through force of habit as he guided the hand away. His shirt and jacket were tugged back into order, though his hand strayed on the coat, fingering the material with a pensive gaze.

“Thorin's,” Fíli supplied, shrugging when he was given a startled look, “You... didn't want to move, we couldn't make you, and you looked- well, you looked cold. His is of warm make.”

He nodded absently, pushing himself to his feet in a graceful movement that belied how thrown he was at _Thorin Oakenshield_ lending _him_ the coat off his own back. Pressing his own forehead against Kíli's in affectionate forgiveness he could sense was what the young dwarf was craving, mimicking what he had seen so often between the Company, Bilbo set off to where he now noticed their uncle was sitting.

The other was on watch, apparently, sharing a log with Dwalin as the latter faced in the opposite direction to take advantage of the firelight to sharpen his axes. Bilbo nodded to the dwarf, slowing long enough in his strides to receive the expected return nod. He shrugged the coat off carefully, folding it neatly and offered it back to the king with a quiet murmur of thanks. He was left standing there, subject to a scrutinizing expression that Bilbo wasn't quite sure was a glare or not, and a beat passed before Thorin jerked his head at the free spot on his other side.

Baffled, he obeyed. Bilbo didn't expect to receive an answer soon, and contented himself with smoothing the fur trimming whilst the other cycled through puff after puff of pipeweed. It wasn't an easy silence, but neither was it strained – it was more of an empty silence, and he supposed idly that it could be worse. This was the second time on the quest that he had babbled and insulted the Company in order to get them out of a rough patch. The only difference, this time, was that there was nothing any of them but him could have done; whether that was a substantial difference, Bilbo didn't know for certain.

“Iron?”

He blinked. That wasn't the question he had been bracing himself for. It was asked in a neutral tone, though, and he floundered for a moment before a glance in his direction prompted him to speak, “Ah. The fairies can't stand iron. It burns them. Well, mostly, I think, anyway, but they all seem to hate it enough that it works to keep them away. All the doors in the Shire are made with iron hinges, you know. It helps.”

A slow nod, followed by a long exhale of smoke from Thorin. The quiet was encapsulating, and he took comfort in the aura that the king seemed to always exude, especially when absorbed in thought.

“Do you think we chance running into a... fairy, again?” It was a question coached in a deep-voiced susurration, not enough to draw Bilbo from the lull that that grown between them. He hummed, lacing his fingers beneath the furl of the coat on his lap, pondering the inquiry with a serious tilt before shaking his head.

“They're quite easy to spot if you know what you're looking for,” He replied. There was a faint breeze, enough to cool the drying tracts on his cheeks – and wasn't that embarrassing, if he could dredge an ounce of care from his tired body for it, “Their homes are marked by fairy rings – mushrooms,” Bilbo added, at the curiosity in the other's eyes, “I'm surprised this one is so close to Rivendell, come think of it. Elves and fairies rarely get along.”

The king gave an eloquent snort at the comment, and Bilbo's lips twitched in answering amusement, “I'm sorry,” He blurted out, “If I had been more aware, I would have noticed it. I shouldn't have let Fíli and Kíli get so near.”

“The lads wouldn't be able to recognize trouble if it bit them in the arse,” Dwalin interjected from his spot, “'Twas better you saw the danger late than they find out themselves.”

Bilbo startled at the rumbled words, spine straightening. At his side, the king nodded, though not without a displeased smack to the other dwarf's back. For his part Dwalin merely grunted and went back to sharpening and oiling his blades, “I saw those boys smotherin' ye,” He continued, gesturing to the two where they sat near the fire, “Did they apologize for what they did?”

He blinked owlishly, twisting in his seat so as to properly address the warrior, “Oh, no, they didn't- well, they _did_ ,” Bilbo shot a worried look at the camp, pursing his lips, “But they needn't, honestly. It's not like they would have known. I certainly cannot be angry with them for ignorance.”

“Aye,” Their uncle agreed, “But neither should they have been having a spat like a pair of dwarflings, either. They ought to know better than to let their guard down where potential danger could be lieing in the wait. For their foolishness you have paid a heavy price, Burglar, and endangered the Company as a whole.”

“ _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo frowned, casting a scolding look at their leader. It didn't cow the man, no, but his expression flickered enough away from the typically stony glare that usually graced his features when he was displeased. He nodded once, satisfied at the change to at least something less dour, and continued, “They were tired, and weary from us walking so long. I can hardly blame them, even if they ought to know better. It was better that I fell in, either way, and not them. Like as not they would have gotten all of us kidnapped, and I would prefer to avoid that, thank you.”

The twitch of Thorin's lips wasn't nearly as gratifying as a short laugh would have been, but the remark drew them away from the gravity of the situation they were all just in enough that it pleased Bilbo. It all seemed a little surreal, how he was carrying on a vaguely normal conversation – and with the elusive, brooding (at least toward him; the Company certainly received their fair share of interaction) king of their group, no less. He swallowed, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth thickly, sinking into the coat on his lap to cling to the sensations of the present.

It was a near thing, but Bilbo managed to not startle at the cool hand against his back. Letting his eyes fall shut, he exhaled, the heavy, be-ringed weight pressing subtly against the dip between his shoulders. Underneath the curl of the coloured leather, his fingers tangled themselves into the fur collar. Both were steadying, and whilst his next inhale was more even, it was too slow to be modestly called calm.

He didn't know how it was managed, shifting from his spot a polite distance from the dwarf next to him, to huddled into said dwarf's side, but he found that the change in position spurred his tremulous emotions past its tipping point. A quiet sob hiccuped itself out of his throat. The hand that had been resting on his back had somehow moved to envelop his free side, fingers tucking themselves into the bend of his knee in a loose curl that was unreasonably comforting. It shook the last tentative tendril of dignity that had been forcefully up-kept the entirety of the evening, and a corner of Bilbo's mind was grateful for the chance of release from the straight-laced control he usually kept for the sake of propriety Hobbits preserved so valiantly. Here, pressed against Thorin, he was safe to simply _feel_.

Crying in heaving, shaking gasps was soothing. Bilbo didn't need to worry about whether the fat trails of tears rolling down his face made blotches of red appear – the tunic creased against his face covered that well enough, nor did he need to worry if anyone thought he was being obscenely loud – he was hunched over and curled tightly around Thorin's coat, heavy fists of the material covering each sniffle and garbled noise of heartache superbly. He knew, intrinsically, that the arm wrapped around him and angling him in gentle persuasion to take advantage of the bodily reassurance so freely offered to him would hide the shaking of his slender, now almost entirely unhobbitish, frame from the view of the rest of the Company.

There were no words exchanged – Bilbo didn't need them, nor want them, too many had been bought and bartered today for him to want any more to weigh his consciousness down. The flex of the arm around him, the thumb pressing smooth and broad strokes just above his knee, the perfectly uninterrupted breathing of the body he was leaning against... that was more than enough communication for him, precisely what he wanted at the moment.

Eventually, the rest of the world filtered back in as he collected himself. Withdrawing a hand from where it had been kept under the coat, pausing just long enough to let his hand to linger in acknowledgment on Thorin's forearm, he scrubbed at his face with a light sniffle, “Thank you.”

His hoarse expression of gratitude was received with a nod and almost invisible quirk of Thorin's lips; moreover, it was covered with a gentle, blatant layer of concern on the Dwarf's face. The tentative smile on his face widened before shrinking back into something more shy, and he tilted his head, a few curls from his bangs falling into his face from his polite confusion.

“Thank _you_ ,” The soft reply was heavy on earnestness, and Bilbo was caught off-guard by the open expression on the man's face, such a different change it was from the typical shuttered look that usually adorned the aristocratic features. He couldn't help but let the calloused fingers drag delicately across his face, brushing the stray locks away and tucking them behind his ear; they pressed with an almost absent touch to cup his jaw, fingertips feathering against the shell of his ear in a gesture that was too electric to tickle. Bilbo's breath drew in a silent pull of evening air - a thumb brushed the laugh lines close to his lips, "Your decision was not an easy one to make, and what you did was vastly more honourable than most others I have met. I have scarcely come upon another so compassionate for others. Thank _you_ , Bilbo, for preserving my kin; I could have only hoped that I would have shown such ingenuity and acuity had I fallen instead."

With words like that, he had little choice but to let them sink in, wrapping him in the reassuring warmth. He sagged, letting Thorin's palm cradle his face. It was so, so utterly different from the last set of hands on him that it felt like his relief had come full-circle – confirmation that his actions hadn't been in vain soothed his gentlehobbit breeding, “I couldn't let you get hurt,” He breathed, allowing himself an extra moment to relish the feel of gentle contact before propriety came roaring back. Whatever nuance his words had... well, that was yet to be decided, “You're just trying to go home. How can I stop that?”

It had to have been his imagination, to feel the tremble in the worn dwarven hand – those were sturdy, steady hands, belonging to a person with unswerving faith in their decisions. His eyes fluttered open, light of the campfire providing just enough light for him to be confused at the abruptly distant look on the other's face. Brows furrowing in growing confusion, his lips parted to voice a query, when Thorin beat him to it, “You couldn't have.”

And then a rush of cool evening air was filling the gap, leaving his world askew to stare blankly to where Dwalin was still sharpening his axes, “Go see Óin about your wounds,” Their leader stated; was that a quiet lilt of fondness in his voice? A pause, in speech and step, “Goodnight, Master Baggins.”

There was a belated moment of flustered staring in Dwalin's direction before a lifted brow made his gaze drop to his lap in befuddlement. Well. It was a little late to be giving back Thorin's coat; it wasn't like he hadn't made the offer of returning it in the first place. But that was better left for morning, “Goodnight, Master Oakenshield.”

**Author's Note:**

> Etymology of "gentle" from Google: Middle English: from Old French gentil ‘highborn, noble,’ from Latin gentilis ‘of the same clan’ (see gentile). The original sense was ‘nobly born,’ hence ‘courteous, chivalrous,’ later ‘mild, moderate in action or disposition’ (mid 16th century). [Re: "Gentleman"]
> 
> Tumblr reblog link [here](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com/post/125986952575/banner-by-bunnybriand-licking-his-dry-lips).


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